


The Right Words

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dreamscape-inkscape prompted: "Books."</p><p>Bobby is desperate to get some researching done, dealing with a pretty difficult loss. Sam's there, though, to help, to remind him he doesn't just cause destruction, to remind him why it's good they're together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Words

"Bobby," Sam says, staring. "What the hell are you doing?" The carpet can barely even be seen, and it's a wonder Bobby found space to crouch down in the first place and thumb through a book.

"Research," Bobby bites out, and he glares, his eyes tired, and, Sam sees as he carefully approaches, nudging tomes over with the toe of his boot, bloodshot too.

"Bobby," Sam says, voice soft. "You must have been at this for hours."

Dean's voice from the entry way. "Of course he has, Sammy. Life of a hunter. You need some coffee, Bobby?"

"Fuck off," Bobby tells him. Dean goes into the kitchen to get him some coffee.

Sam gently moves aside a couple books, kneeling on the ground in the spot he cleared. "Let me help," he says. And he picks up a book, turning a few pages. It's one he's never seen before. "What am I looking for?"

"Information I don't have," Bobby says sulkily. He shakes himself at the tone of his own voice and adds, "Witches. A spell. Need to find a counter. Running out of time, though. And I ain't losing someone else this month." He looks Sam in the eye. "I just ain't."

"Okay," Sam agrees, like Bobby would do for him. 

"It's not just regular old witches, either. No, that would be _easy_." It's ghost witches casting a spell together, something Bobby and his contacts haven't dealt with before. Bobby's starting to think no hunter still alive in North America has.

After a few minutes of Bobby explaining all about the spell in rushed sentences with pauses in between to flip through pages with increasing furrows in his brow, Dean shows with the cup of coffee, and Bobby says, "Thanks, Dean," grateful. He takes it, nods up at him, sighs long and hard into the warm mug, not noticing when a drop of coffee slides down the side of the mug and makes a faint mark on the outer margin of a page.

Dean nearly trips over the books on his way over to sit at the desk and pour himself a drink. He clucks his tongue a little, swishing the liquid. "You know—" he starts.

"Get outta here," Bobby complains, and Dean pushes the chair back, stands. 

"Are you sure?" Dean asks, looking from Bobby to Sam and back.

Sam glances down at the book spread across his own lap and decides, "Yeah. I think we're good. Don't worry."

"Be back in a few hours," Dean says, saluting Bobby with his own glass before downing the last of the whisky in it and setting it back down, leaving it behind.

Bobby relaxes a little after the door shuts behind Dean. He loosens up slowly, in stages. It isn't that he doesn't work just fine with Dean when they've both slept, when Dean's not antsy from too long without a good hunt and Bobby's not near his breaking point with worry and a lack of leads, but Dean's tradition of hitting the few bars in Souix Falls is one that feels like it should be part of every visit.

"I'm gonna get you some water," Sam decides.

Bobby sort of bows his head, and Sam figures his latest loss was harder than usual. He checks the fridge for some leftovers just in case Bobby's forgotten to eat. Okay, well, there's no just in case. He finds some goulash in a tupperware to heat up.

"Kid?" Bobby calls.

"You need to eat," Sam calls back. He gets no response, which is really an okay.

He replaces Bobby's trembling half-empty mug with a fork. "What was she like?" he asks. He hears a sniff and turns to the book he'd been staring at for too long already. 

"'Bout your age. Mother of two. Raised in the life, but got away. Changeling came through Watertown."

"I remember," Sam says.

"Well, that's where she's from." He glances at Sam, and Sam sees the fear he can hear in the man's voice. He holds his gaze, unassumingly, steadily, letting him know he's there.

"I'm sorry," says Bobby.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Sam says.

"She called me to get some help. I even met her kids, Sam. That was the first time. Then, there was a sasquatch scare. It was a bear, turns out. But I drove out, and she drove out, and about a half dozen other folk.

"And then," he says, voice quiet, "there was a werewolf. They're fast, Sam. They're quick," he glances at Sam again, "and brutal, when they're used to what it feels like, taking someone's heart. There's me, and I lucked out, for some fucking reason. But her. Sam, she was your age."

Sam reaches out, sets his hand on Bobby's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he says. His eyes echo it, the way he leans slightly, the way his fingers grip just that little bit. "That's awful, Bobby."

"I didn't know what to tell her husband. I just fumbled all over myself, the words...didn't do it justice. He didn't know thing one about hunting. It's a miracle he didn't shoot me, turn me in." His eyes widen like it's a new thought. He breaks off, tugs Sam closer, his fork still in his hand. It digs into Sam's shoulder blade for a moment. He rests his head against Sam.

"You've been having a rough time sleeping," Sam suggests. "Not just since this case. Since the one you just told me about."

"Sometimes," Bobby admits. "They're  _fast_ ," he reminds, like Sam is forgetting.

"Too fast," Sam agrees. "And brutal."

When the phone rings, Bobby's got a forkful of goulash halfway to his mouth. He makes to toss the bowl aside, but Sam takes it from him instead, or tries. It ends up tipping, some of the noodles spilling. Bobby stares at the red sauce on his arm and the leg of his jeans dumbly for a moment, so Sam hops up and grabs the phone. "Hey? Bobby's place."

He watches Bobby scrabble for the cup of coffee, pulling it to his lips, inhaling sharply before taking a spluttering sip. His orange t-shirt gets splashed with drops of coffee. He doesn't take his eyes off Sam, though he can feel the cold liquid seep in.

Relief covers Sam, unexpected but not horribly distracting, like he'd opened the door to conversation to find that rain water from earlier had been caught above it, wanting to greet him.

"They're good, Bobby. They're safe," Sam calls, and Bobby's hand shakes and he spills some more, and he looks like an idiot, but at least he didn't kill anyone else.

Sam finally hangs up, then eyes the spreading stain at Bobby's chest. "Okay, seriously. It's bedtime," he says, kneeling down near the closest book to start closing them all, carrying them one by one to the shelves. He's getting them in the right sections, at least, if not in the right order. Bobby doesn't want to move anyway.

Sam clears a path to Bobby, and Bobby's surprised when that's all Sam wanted to do. 

"Up, ya idjit," Sam says, nudging him with the toe of his boot. Bobby gets up, leaving the mug and the bowl, leaving the rest of the books. 

"Sorry," Bobby says, the word rushing out in relief, in confusion. He feels a sense of loss for the amount of stress, a sense of loss for the strife, for the penance, for the burning of tears in his throat.

Sam reaches for the bottom of Bobby's shirt and they help him get it off together. 

He adjusts his hat slightly, lowering the brim just a touch, a little self-conscious. His chest is oddly cool. "Did they really just say they're okay?" 

"They're fine. Scrapes, bruises, one broken arm. But they're fine."

"Then I'm fine," Bobby says with detachment.

"You're fine," Sam agrees, a slight hint of a smile playing at his lips. "And shirtless," he teases. Carefully, he reaches out, placing a hand on Bobby's chest. "You smell like coffee," he grins.

Bobby takes a step toward Sam until he's as real as he sounds, and they tilt their faces, connecting to each other with a brush of lips, with a kiss almost too familiar for such a strange night.

"I wanna thank you," Bobby murmurs against Sam's lips, then against his cheek, punctuated with a kiss there too, he adds, "I'm not normally...." He can't even describe what it is he's been, just that it's been bad, just that it's been annoying, that it's not been helfpul.

Sam's got his arms around him, his shirt oddly soft against Bobby's skin. Bobby sighs.

"If you sleep, I promise you I'll find some way to get Dean out of our hair," Sam says. 

"Mm," Bobby protests, shakes his head slightly, not wanting to waste too much energy. "Gonna thank you first. Then I'll sleep with you long as you want."

"Werewolf lore," Sam announces when he flicks on the light to Bobby's room.

It's true. There's lore on the bed, cause secretly he's pretty obsessive too; it's not just Sam. And Sam, hell, that's something else he's obsessive  _about_.

"I'm getting you some water," Sam announces. Bobby nods, cause he's all dried out and shaky and he wants to stay up just another half hour, if he can. That's all he wants, just to show Sam the nice way Sam deserves to feel.

"Too much caffeine," Bobby explains to the werewolf sketch with dripping fangs and a cruel gaze. He folds the sketch in half, covering the face, covering the words alongside it. He shuts them all up in a book, knocking the volumes down of the side of the sagging bed so there's room for a far more important occupant.

Sam holds him, bare skin to bare skin, arms and torsos pressing, pulling away, adjusting. Bobby shakes a little less as he drinks, comes back to reality a little, versus the dream that had been his search for answers.

"God, I'm gonna have to piss," he complains, surprising himself with the truth of the statement.

Sam chuckles low in his ear, gives his whole body a squeeze. "But not yet," Sam reminds.

"You think you're so cute," Bobby snarks, turning his head to kiss Sam on the tip of his nose.

"I love you so much," Sam returns with a sigh. "You worked so hard tonight. I'm so proud of you." 

Bobby shifts out of Sam's arms enough to stroke his fingers down Sam's side, catching on Sam's waistband, in his belt loops, then, of course, at the button. "You did too," he assures. He was a mess, still is a mess, but Sam doesn't look at things like they're messes, doesn't call things messes, even if sometimes he should.

"You're my little open book," Bobby purrs out of nowhere, fingers releasing the button, the zipper, and Sam shifts to help him get him all bare.

"Mm, what does that mean? You're gonna keep me spread open on your bed forever?" Sam says cheekily. Bobby flushes red, and Sam strokes his cheek, telling him, "I'm just kidding. You meant I say what you think I'll say?"

"Yeah," Bobby admits. "But...as for the other...thing. Maybe after I've slept."

Sam grins, helping Bobby bare him all the way. "Okay," he says. "I'll tell you everything you need to know."


End file.
